


suddenly a smile, shyly obscene

by alykapedia



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Age Reversal, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Regency, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-08-23
Packaged: 2019-06-14 11:40:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15387999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alykapedia/pseuds/alykapedia
Summary: Yuuri has never been able to understand why everyone always seems concerned whenever Viktor talks of his promise to marry Yuuri once he's older. Viktor's but a boy, after all, and a marriage proposal from a boy of eleven is hardly going to last and won’t hurt anyone.Viktor will have forgotten the whole thing in a sennight.(Except Viktor never forgets.)





	1. seven/eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, yes, it's another Regency AU because I have no self-control and should be STOPPED. Inspired by an ask on tumblr about whether I've thought about an age reversal of sorts, where Yuuri's older than Viktor and because I'm weak and a total pushover, here we are I guess
> 
> Viktor and Yuuri have a 4-year age difference here so...yeah
> 
> I have...most of this written out because I originally planned this to be a one-shot, but after some thought I figured having each age a separate chapter would kinda work better, so hopefully I can update...once a week?? Delayed gratification and all that

“Yuuri!”

It is, as Mari had said, akin to having another, much more excitable dog, and while Yuuri does not quite completely agree with such a comparison, he cannot help but think it as Viktor bursts inside his bedroom, long hair streaming in unruly waves behind him and waving a stick around, looking very much like Vicchan that Yuuri has to stifle a laugh into the pages of his book. When Mr. Feltsman had arrived at their country home in Brighton to entrust the young heir of the Nikiforov fortune to their care, Yuuri had expected to have to suffer through an entire summer with a rotten little boy. Yuuri has unfortunately made the acquaintance of far too many back in Master Cialdini’s salle in London, and he had erroneously thought that the young Nikiforov heir would be the same, except of course Viktor, or Vitya as he insists to be called by Yuuri, is nothing like the boys that Yuuri knows, of which he is most grateful.

Viktor is sweet and dangerously charming, and immediately takes a shine to Yuuri, especially after he witnesses Yuuri going through a few drills clad in his fencing leathers. From then on, Yuuri gains a most tenacious shadow as Viktor toddles after him, sitting in on his lessons and following Yuuri wherever he goes, demanding that Yuuri watch him, hold his hand, and during one memorable instance, even bathe with him.

As the youngest in his family, Yuuri has never had anyone who was younger than him and having Vitya around is refreshing, and Yuuri basks in the opportunity to act as an older brother to the younger boy, although he is only but eleven to Viktor’s seven. Of course, this only leads to Yuuri humoring all of Viktor’s peculiarities and forgiving most, if not all, of his little misdemeanors. It’s what Yuuri does now as a harried-looking Mao peeks inside his room to fetch Viktor, and Yuuri shakes his head and places his book down; he’s not going to be able to read with Viktor around demanding his attention.

“Yuuri,” Viktor says in a whine, abandoning the stick on top of the velvet ottoman and jumping up on Yuuri’s bed, landing with a small bounce and startling Vicchan from where he’s perched on one of Yuuri’s pillows. Mumbling a quick apology to Vicchan, Viktor settles heavily on Yuuri’s lap and looks up at him, wide blue eyes beseeching. “You said you’d teach me how to fence!” Viktor’s face twists up into the most pitiful countenance a boy of seven can muster, an impressive feat that has Yuuri biting down on a smile and running a gentle hand through silver hair.

“That I did,” Yuuri allows, twisting a lock of silver hair around his finger and brushing the ends along the curve of Viktor’s cheek. “But it’s late, and I meant for the lesson to be on the morrow, not today.” Movement by the doorway reminds him of Mao’s presence, and Yuuri sends her an apologetic glance, pushing at Viktor’s shoulders to draw him into a sitting position. “Now, you should go back to your room and sleep.”

With a horrified gasp, Viktor turns on his knees and grabs at Yuuri’s hands. “But I want to sleep with you!” He cries, pouting fiercely and looking as if he was on the verge of tears.

It’s an expression that Yuuri has become increasingly familiar with over the past few weeks, and he should be used to it by now, but his heart still squeezes at the sight of tears glistening in Viktor’s eyes, threatening to fall.

“Vitya, you have your own room,” Yuuri protests, a token attempt that convinces absolutely no one, least of all Viktor.

He is then unsurprised when Viktor’s face twists into an even more pitiful mien as he cries, “Yuuri! Please, please, please, I promise I’ll be good!” Viktor insists with a tremble on his lips. “I shan’t misbehave ever again!” 

Viktor’s words would be much more effective if he did not utter the same promise every time he wanted something. As the situation stands, Yuuri has heard perhaps a hundred different iterations of Viktor’s promise to behave, and has yet to actually see the younger boy do so. Yuuri doubts that he ever will.

However, even with this in his consideration, Yuuri only smiles indulgently, tucks a stray lock of hair behind Viktor’s ear, and says, “Well, all right. But do at least allow Mao tie your hair.”

“No!” Viktor shakes his head, curling up into Yuuri’s lap as if to hide from Mao, who has yet to even step away from the doorway. “I want Yuuri to do it!”

From the amused and knowing look on Mao’s face, Yuuri knows that the tale of Viktor’s most recent mischief will be heard all throughout the estate come morning, and Mari will raise her eyebrow and shake her head at him over breakfast for mollycoddling Viktor, but Yuuri dares anyone to resist Viktor’s bright blue eyes and live to tell the tale. “Fine,” he acquiesces before nodding towards Mao. “Bid Mao a good night and fetch the brush.”

Viktor bursts into movement at that, countenance turning immediately gleeful as he catapults off of Yuuri’s lap and dances off to the vanity to fetch the brush. He chirps off a _good night_ at Mao, who gives one final curtsy before closing the door behind her, and prances back triumphantly to the bed, grinning all the while. This ought to be indication enough for Yuuri to stop falling for Viktor’s obvious ploys, but he knows in his heart that he will always be indulging Viktor.

Shaking his head in exasperation, Yuuri takes the brush and steers Viktor to sit in front of him so that he may begin the arduous process of brushing Viktor’s long hair. He will be the first to admit that he is absolutely terrible at this; his attempts at braiding hair always ends in a tangled mess, but Viktor always insists, saying that he does it the best, and as it has been proven time and again, Yuuri is incapable of saying no to Viktor. He drags the brush carefully down Viktor’s hair, making sure to untangle any knots and marveling at its length and softness.

“Yuuri?” Viktor says once Yuuri hands the brush back and is now preparing to braid Viktor’s hair. “I think I want to be an omega when I grow up.”

Yuuri startles, fingers fumbling with the strands of Viktor’s hair. Viktor is but seven, a babe barely out his cradle; he shouldn’t be talking about dynamics! “What--what brought this on?” He asks, shifting in his seat to peer at Viktor closely, worry churning in his stomach. “You are far too young to be thinking about these things!” Yuuri scolds.

“I overheard the maids talking,” Viktor says, looking back at him with wide eyes, and Yuuri will be talking to Mrs. Mirai about this, because Viktor is constantly underfoot and the entire household ought to be careful what they talk about when he’s in the vicinity. “About--about how Mr. Ichiro is buying his omega lots of gifts, and I want to be an omega too if they get gifts all the time.”

The explanation leaves Yuuri smiling and shaking his head in amusement. He’s not sure what exactly he had expected to hear, but he should have known better that Viktor would have a simplistic and rather selfish reason for wanting to be an omega.

“That’s because Mr. Ichiro is a kind and doting alpha who wishes to spoil his omega very much.” Mr. Ichiro has been in his family’s employ as a footman even before Yuuri was born, and the household is all a-titter now that he has found an omega to settle down with after years of staying a bachelor. “Not all alphas are like him,” Yuuri tells Viktor gently.

He has overheard countless tales from Mari’s friends about alphas who mistreat their omegas and knows that Mr. Ichiro is an exception, rather than the rule, when it came to such things. It would be much better for Viktor if he knows this now before he has a chance to get hurt.

After making a soft noise of understanding, Viktor falls quiet, allowing Yuuri to twist his hair into a loose plait. Yuuri worries that he’s scared him, but before he can try and explain further, Viktor is turning to him, seemingly intent. “Then I want to be Yuuri’s omega!” Viktor blurts out, surprising Yuuri yet again. “You can be an alpha and I’ll be your omega, and you’ll be nice to me and give me lots of gifts!”

Yuuri can almost see the contentment coming off of Viktor in waves after his pronouncement, satisfied that he has found the perfect solution to his conundrum, and Yuuri feels awful that he should play villain to Viktor’s proposal. He sees the merit of it, even though it is rather strange to think of Viktor as anything but a younger brother; it’s all very unfortunate then that the world does not work as such, and one’s dynamics cannot be chosen by oneself, but is instead dictated by nature and fate.

“I’m afraid that isn’t not how it works, Vitya.”

“Oh.” Viktor's entire visage seems to wilt, stricken by the revelation.

Unlike earlier, Viktor looks more subdued, now that he’s no longer acting to get what he wants, and Yuuri sighs, reaching out to coax Viktor into his arms. Yuuri has never been the most tactile of individuals, but he tries now for Viktor, who eagerly returns his embrace, tucking his cold nose into the crook of Yuuri’s neck.

“Be that as it may,” Yuuri says, running a gentle hand over Viktor’s back. “While I can’t assure you that you will be my omega and I, your alpha.” He will either be a beta like his Papa and Mari, or an omega like his Mama. “I can, at the very least, tell you that you will always be my Vitya and I will be around to give you gifts should the occasion call for it.”

Raising his head, Viktor peers up at him through his lashes and holds out his littlest finger. “Do you promise?” He asks, crooking his finger in an invitation that Yuuri accepts with a small laugh.

“I do.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This won't be the last time Yuuri will be saying _I do_ if Viktor has his way HAHAHA
> 
> Comments help water my crops c:


	2. eleven/fifteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri really ought to stop making promises to impressionable young boys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ANYWAY I thought I wouldn't be able to upload a chapter today because I currently don't have internet (because, I shit you not, a branch fell on our...telephone line. The sad thing is that this isn't the first time this has happened.) But I have braved the outside world to have this up as promised HAHAHA
> 
> We have a four-year timeskip!! And some more characters involved. Sort of.
> 
> Let's all ignore any glaring mistakes, thanks.

A soft knock sounds from Yuuri’s door, hesitant, and he has to wonder which unfortunate maid has been recruited by his sister and his Aunt Minako to check on him this time around. He has already swayed Wakaba and Mao to his side, and Yuuko has too soft a spot for him to be trusted to get him out of his room during this trying time, hence it cannot be any of them. Not that it matters, of course, Yuuri has absolutely no intention of leaving his room—he will stay inside forever if he has to—and he is already preparing to send the poor maid away when another knock startles him out of his thoughts, louder and harsher than the last.

“Yuuri, you have a visitor!”

Mari’s voice breaks through the silence of his room, answering the question of who would be brazen enough to knock upon his door so roughly, and Yuuri smothers a groan into his pillow, pulling his blankets into an even tighter cocoon around himself, hoping that his silence would drive his sister away. His hopes, however, are unfounded as Mari’s infernal knocking continues, waking Vicchan from his nap and prompting Yuuri to finally put an end to the disturbance.

The pillow he throws at the door makes a miserable and wholly unsatisfying sound, but it’s enough to make the knocking stop.

“Yuuri!” Mari calls again, punctuating it with another loud knock.

Instead of curling further into his makeshift nest, Yuuri surfaces from his blankets to yell out, “Send them away then!” His sister is either lying or Phichit has tired of his absence, but even so, it has only been four days since his presentation and Yuuri still feels as if he has been broken open, his insides carved out and put back inside incorrectly, and no amount of fondness will ever compel Yuuri to take leave of his bed and meet his friend.

Yuuri thinks he will require an entire month’s time to recover, at the very least.

“If I do that, he’s going to cry,” Mari says, a faint noise of protest follows after the heels of her statement, telling Yuuri just who it is that his scheming sister has recruited to her cause. Aside from his Mama, there is mayhap only one other person who can get him out of his room peacefully, the one person that Yuuri has never quite learned how to say no to—Vitya. “And I’m quite certain you wouldn’t want that.”

Cursing under his breath, Yuuri slowly gets to his feet, hanging onto the bedpost for support when his knees threaten to buckle underneath him. The newly-formed heat between his thighs throbs, foreign and unpleasant, and Yuuri stumbles to his door, bracing himself for the barrage of scents that will no doubt assault his still sensitive nose as he finally opens the door.

Unlike the other times he’s tried to venture out of the safety of his room, a miasma of combined scents doesn’t assail him this time. He can smell the faint fragrance of herbs, Mari’s familiar scent of tobacco and cardamom, and Viktor’s powdery winter scent, but other than that, Yuuri no longer feels as if he can smell every person in the entire house. Still, he has no time to enjoy this improvement as Mari smirks triumphantly, smug that she has gotten him to open his door for the first time in days.

“This is cheating,” Yuuri hisses because Mari knows of his weakness to Viktor’s tears. Four years have passed since Mr. Feltsman first brought Viktor to Brighton, and Yuuri still has no hopes of overcoming his tears and trembling lips. Mari, as she is wont to, only laughs in his face and nudges Viktor closer to the doorway.

“What was that line?” Mari asks as Yuuri rolls his eyes, for he has the most terrible inkling that he knows what she is about to say and he crosses his arms over his chest. “Ah, yes, all’s fair in love and war, little brother.” She says, grinning and nodding towards Viktor who’s holding a small bundle of blue lilies and white carnations—Yuuri’s favorites—tied up with a ribbon and a box of sweetmeats. “And little Vitya did come all the way here just to see you and he’s even brought you gifts.”

In no countenance was annoyance more evident than in his right at this very moment. He swallows down a scathing rejoinder in favor of pulling Viktor inside his room—an act of defiance that has Mari raising an amused brow. It’s probably improper to do such a thing, now that he has presented and is expected to act in a manner befitting an omega of a gentle disposition, and Yuuri is certain that if it had been anyone else other than his sister watching Viktor enter his room, he would have gotten a dressing down, but as it stands, Yuuri cares not and so does his sister, as she just looks on knowingly wearing a self-satisfied mien.

“Do come down for supper later,” she drawls before he has the chance to close the door. “Mr. Feltsman has brought the entire lot of them and Mama says you have to be there.”

Pursing his lips, Yuuri says, “I make no promises,” even though they both know that he will suffer through their guests so as to not disappoint their Mama.  

He slams the door in his sister’s face lest she say anything more that would provoke him into a rage, and finally turns around to see that Viktor has made himself comfortable on the bed and was now lifting Vicchan onto his lap. The peculiar sight brings a smile to Yuuri’s lips as he makes his way towards them, cinching his robe tighter around himself. Ever since Mari had teased Viktor about how he was not the only Victor in Yuuri’s life, as the title also belonged to Yuuri’s most beloved and most faithful companion, Viktor has competed with Vicchan for his attention, and to see the two of them getting along is a pleasant surprise.

“It’s lovely to see that you’ve stopped fighting,” Yuuri says, busying himself with the small bouquet that Viktor has left haphazardly on the ottoman. He deftly unties the satin ribbon and replaces the blooms in a vase, before finally joining Viktor where he’s sat by the foot of the bed, the box of sweetmeats lying between them.

“We’ve come to a truce,” Viktor says, nodding at him and then down at Vicchan, who lets out a woof of agreement.

“Ah, yes, of course.” With a small huff of laughter, Yuuri uncovers the box of sweets and deftly plucks out a candied plum, humming happily when the sugar all but melts on his tongue. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Viktor do the same with a chocolate-covered confection, swallowing the sweet whole as if afraid that anyone would take it away.

With sweetness on his tongue and Viktor’s calming scent in his nose, Yuuri lets himself collapse onto the bed with a faint hum and a rustle of bedclothes. Like this, Yuuri can pretend that the events of days past have not occurred, that he has not been irrevocably changed, and he can do all he wants without society frowning upon him so. Yuuri has another candied confection in his hand when he hears and feels Viktor move, and he cracks his eyes open to see the boy leaning over him, concern evident on his young face.

Before Yuuri can smooth his thumb over the wrinkle on Viktor’s brow, Viktor asks, “Why are you upset?” He looks heartbroken as he says the words, as if the prospect of Yuuri being upset about anything is unthinkable.

There are a multitude of lies Yuuri can utter, sweet falsities he can feed Viktor to shield him from the injustice and the inherent flaw in their design, but Yuuri has always been honest with Viktor and he is not about to change that now.

“I presented as an omega,” Yuuri confesses, the words heavy, weighing down the corners of his lips, the curve of his mouth giving way to a grimace. “I guess this means you will have to give me presents now.” He adds teasingly, remembering the time all those years ago when Viktor said that he wanted to be an omega because he wanted to receive presents all the time.

Tilting his head to the side, Viktor lets out a soft, questioning sound. “Do you not want to be one?”

“I don’t mind it.” Yuuri still thinks the entire physical transformation strange, but if he thinks of it in the same way he would a scar he suffered from fencing, or that time he dislocated his leg when he fell of his horse, then the entire thing becomes much more bearable. He thinks it would be much better if the presentation only came with a physical change, but— “I will have to act differently now.” Everyone in the beau monde will expect him to act prim and proper as befitting his station and dynamic; the perfect picture of a genteel and well-bred omega. “I’ll have to stop fencing,” he says, the words sticking in his throat.

“What? Why?”

Yuuri’s heart sinks, a stone dropping heavily into the pit of his stomach as he explains, “Because it isn’t something that omegas do.” His family had thought, or perhaps, hoped, that Yuuri would present as a beta, and hence, never restricted him from any kind of activity he wished to partake in—be it fencing or dance—as there were no such expectations on betas to act in a certain way. The same, of course, could not be said for alphas and most especially, omegas, who have to comport themselves in a manner that would help them gain a spouse in possession of a good fortune. “If I want to find a suitable match, I will have to change, and that means stopping fencing altogether.”

While Yuuri knows that his parents would never force him to get married, Yuuri wishes to not be a burden to them. He wants to bring honor to his family’s name, and if it means having to give up all his interests to marry some nameless alpha or beta, then he will do as he must.

Viktor, however, does not feel the same.

“That’s stupid!” Viktor yells, jumping to his feet and beginning to pace the length of Yuuri’s room like a caged animal. Yuuri can only watch and listen in mild bemusement as Vicchan follows suit, nipping at Viktor’s heels. “You shouldn’t have to change yourself! You ought to be able to do what you want to do!” Viktor continues, voice rising as he stomps his boots on the carpeted floor. “You’re the best fencer in all of London—” Here, Yuuri shakes his head, an unbidden smile forming on his lips. “—and, and if they can’t appreciate that then maybe they don’t deserve you!”

Out of the mouth of babes, indeed, Yuuri thinks fondly. “Thank you, Vitya, that’s very sweet of you.” He stands up gingerly and draws Viktor into an embrace, laughing when he hears Viktor sniffle and bury his face into the crook of Yuuri’s neck, an action that he’s done ever since he was but a boy of seven.

They stay like that for a small eternity and Yuuri could have stayed an eternity longer, but Viktor is pulling away with a surprising urgency, looking up at him with the bright, blue eyes that have always been Yuuri’s weakness.

“Then I’ll just be your alpha!” Viktor blurts out, smiling a smile that Yuuri cannot help but echo, even though the proposal is ridiculous at best. “Yakov says I’ll present as one soon, so I’ll just marry you and you can continue fencing! I’ll give you all the gifts that you could ever want.”

Cheeks dimpling as he bites down on a laugh, Yuuri starts, “Vitya,” only to pause, gazing at Viktor’s painfully earnest expression. He’s suddenly reminded of a similar proposal, one that Viktor has also voiced out four years ago; the only difference is that this time, Viktor wishes to be Yuuri’s alpha, and not his omega. “Perhaps when you’re a bit older,” Yuuri decides, brushing away a lock of hair from Viktor’s face.

“Do you promise?” Viktor asks, and just as he did all those years ago, he holds out his littlest finger in an invitation that Yuuri accepts with an amused shake of his head.

“I do.” Yuuri twines their fingers together in a solemn promise. “Although, I’m quite certain that you’ll meet someone much more beautiful than I am when the time finally comes for you to marry.” He’s no great beauty, and with how charming and lovely Viktor is now, Yuuri has no doubt that he would grow to be a great man who will have no trouble finding a spouse.

But Viktor shakes his head vehemently, and says with a certainty that makes the hairs on the back of Yuuri’s neck stand up, “I will never find anyone more beautiful than you.”

.

“What’s the ribbon on your finger for?”

Mila asks halfway through supper, bringing everyone’s attention to the red, satin ribbon tied snugly around Yuuri’s right ring finger. His Papa and Mr. Feltsman pause their conversation, his Mama and Mari following suit. Mr. Plisetsky and Mr. Popovich too crane their heads to peer at Yuuri’s hand, and Yuuri can only grimace at the attention, unsure how to explain that Viktor had tied it around his finger earlier as a promise to marry him. It was all very sweet, and Yuuri had been charmed enough to keep the ribbon on, unwilling to upset Viktor in any way.

A marriage proposal from a boy of eleven is hardly going to last and won’t hurt anyone.

Before Yuuri can begin to explain, Viktor announces loudly, “I’m going to marry Yuuri!”

Viktor’s enthusiastic declaration shocks the entire table into silence; Yuuri would laugh at everyone’s wide-eyed miens if not for the twin looks of horror slowly appearing on Mr. Feltsman’s and Mr. Plisetsky’s faces.

“Are you now?” Mari asks, eyebrow rising in question. Yuuri sees her gaze flit towards him before returning to Viktor.

“Yuuri said yes,” Viktor answers with a shrug, nonchalant, uncaring of the way Mr. Feltsman’s eyes have grown even wider. “And I’ll be a good husband and alpha for him. I’ll give him gifts and let him do whatever he wants.” At that, Viktor gives him a bright smile, causing Yuuri to let out the laugh that has been threatening to bubble out of his lips.

Turning towards the table at large, Yuuri holds up his hand, and says, “What more could one ask for in a husband?”

His Papa only shakes his head in amusement, while his Mama looks on at them fondly, cheeks dimpling. If they had been anywhere else other than the dining table, Yuuri is certain that his Mama would be cooing at them, perhaps even pinching Viktor on the cheeks like she used to do when Viktor was younger.

“Are you aware that you will also have to ask for our permission if you wish to marry my little brother?” Mari asks Viktor, and Yuuri doesn’t even hesitate to kick her under the table. “Minako’s too, I suppose,” she continues, unfazed. “Not only will you have to ask for our blessings, you will also have to prove yourself capable of providing for Yuuri.”

“Mari!” Yuuri hisses, aiming another kick at his sister when he sees the stricken look on Viktor’s face.

“Do you think you can do that?”

Yuuri’s about to throw his still-full plate at Mari, make a scene just to make her stop upsetting Viktor, when Viktor says, “I’ll do anything it takes to marry Yuuri!”

A grins unfurls slowly on Mari’s lips, knife-sharp and filled with promise.

“That’s what I like to hear.”

.

The very last thing Yuuri expects when he heads upstairs to retire to his room is be accosted by Mr. Plisetsky, who carries upon himself an air of perturbation. Four years his senior, Mr. Plisetsky has always unnerved him, and aside from exchanging brief pleasantries, Yuuri has never found reason to talk to the man especially since Mr. Plisetsky seemed to dislike Yuuri for sharing the same name. And so Yuuri knows not how to act or what to say, wanting nothing more than to escape so that he will no longer be subjected to Mr. Plisetsky’s hateful stare.

“Is that wise? Promising to marry Viktor?” Mr. Plisetsky finally asks, halting Yuuri’s attempt to leave.

The question is baffling, and Yuuri does not bother hiding his confusion, raising an eyebrow up at Mr. Plisetsky. “Vitya’s eleven. He’ll have forgotten about it in a fortnight,” he says. It would be the height of foolishness to expect that Viktor be beholden to any sort of proposal when he is but a boy. “He was only trying to comfort me.” And making sure that Yuuri would still be able to teach him fencing.

“If you’re worried that you won’t find anyone to marry,” Mr. Plisetsky begins, baffling Yuuri even further at the sudden change of subject matter. “You ought not to be.”

Yuuri scoffs at that, his disdain as clear as day. He has heard the same sentiments from his parents, Aunt Minako, and Mr. Feltsman, and if Mr. Plisetsky thinks that hearing the words for the umpteenth time will convince Yuuri, then he shall be sorely disappointed.

“I’m serious,” Mr. Plisetsky continues beseechingly, stepping closer and making Yuuri’s hackles rise. He sends up a small prayer of thanks that he had decided to dab menthol underneath his nose, because if not for it, then Yuuri would be overwhelmed by Mr. Plisetsky’s strong alpha scent. “I would marry you in a heartbeat.”

Yuuri blinks, parsing out the words, before his face twists into a most terrible scowl.

“That’s very kind of you.” Yuuri has no need for Mr. Plisetsky’s pity. He knows better than anyone that he is plain and unassuming, and the last thing he will ever need is some alpha offering to marry him as if they are doing him an immense boon. Yuuri makes a point to take a step back, bringing him up on a higher step so that he can gaze at Mr. Plisetsky down his nose, as he says, “But I have already said yes to Vitya.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry yura, vitya got here first
> 
> please water my crops by commenting pls and thank


	3. fifteen/nineteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s a promise, then,” Viktor says, holding out a hand and is rewarded with a small, furry paw and a high-pitched yip. “From one Viktor to another.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> earlier update than planned because i'm feverish and my trash human body is finally trying to eject me from this earth. there are actually two timeskips this time: Viktor and Yuuri start out 15 and 19, respectively, and end at 19 and 23 in this chapter
> 
> mistakes may abound, let's just...ignore them, thanks

The Katsuki home has always been something of a sanctuary for Viktor.

Ever since his boyhood days, the Katsuki’s Brighton estate, as well as their townhouse situated along Mayfair, has always been a safe haven where he can seek refuge anytime he wishes and will never be turned away. Up to this day, Viktor has become something of a permanent fixture in the Katsuki home and he has never been more thankful to Yakov for entrusting him to the care of Mr. Katsuki and his family all those years ago, because not only has Viktor earned a refuge from the vultures wanting to sink their claws in his fortune, he has also gained a second family. As such, Viktor knows that he will always be welcome and that there will always be black tea and jam waiting for him.

However, even with that knowledge buoying him, Viktor visibly hesitates as he follows Yuuko down the corridor, towards the drawing-room where Mama Hiroko and Mari wait. He casts a longing glance at the staircase leading up to the family’s private apartments where, Viktor hopes, Yuuri is. Yuuri has refused to meet him for nearly a week now after he’d announced his decision to join the regiment, and Viktor knows not how he will survive if he gets not even a single glance at Yuuri before he leaves.

“He’s upstairs,” Yuuko says, startling him out of his reverie, and Viktor turns to see her wearing a rueful smile on her lips. She has known him almost as long as he has known Yuuri, having been an apprentice to the old housekeeper, and Yuuko, like almost everyone in the household, knows of his plight. “Don’t tell him I told you,” she continues in a whisper, “But he’s cancelled all of his engagements for today just so he can see you.”

The news lifts his spirits, but Viktor endeavors to keep a clear head because he knows Yuuri, and he knows well enough that Yuuri wanting to meet with him is hardly an indication that Viktor has been forgiven. “Is he still angry at me?”

Yuuko’s grimace is answer enough. “I’m afraid you will have to discover that for yourself,” she says, before finally pushing the door to the drawing-room open and announcing his presence to its occupants. “Mr. Nikiforov is here to see you.” With that done, Yuuko gives him a parting nod before disappearing off to the kitchens, skirts billowing behind her.

Taking a deep, bolstering breath to soothe his nerves, Viktor steps inside the drawing-room to meet his fate. Clad in his uniform, his hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, and his face twisted into a serious expression, Viktor looks as if he is about to go to war, and it could not be farther away from the truth. He feels ill-prepared and it’s all Viktor can do not to run away, striding instead towards the center of the room  where Mama Hiroko is already standing up and walking to meet him.

“Oh, look at you!” She titters excitedly, bringing him into a hug and Viktor folds himself to fit in her arms like he used to when he was much younger. If he was to pick one thing that he resented about leaving his boyhood days behind, it would have to be growing much taller than Mama Hiroko. At fifteen years, he is almost the same height as Yuuri, and Viktor dreads the day that he shall grow even taller and can no longer fit himself in Yuuri’s embrace. “You look very handsome in your uniform, dear,” Mama Hiroko continues as she releases him, her words punctuated with a pinch to his cheek that has Viktor huffing out a laugh and forgetting why he had been nervous to meet them in the first place.

“Thank you, Mrs. Katsuki—”

“None of that now! Call me Mama as you’ve always done!” With a shake of her head, she leads him towards the sofa and bids him to sit, where he turns down her offers of tea and sweetmeats, not trusting his stomach just yet. “You be careful now, Vitya, yes?”

The sound of the diminutive, spoken in Mama Hiroko’s thick accent so that it sounds much closer to _Viccha_ than _Vitya,_ warms him to the core, and Viktor has no other recourse but to agree with her wholeheartedly. “Of course.”

“Yuuri’s absolutely going to hate seeing you wearing that,” Mari quips and he looks at her to see the amusement writ clearly on her face as she appraises him. Viktor had thought the same earlier, knowing of Yuuri’s dislike of the military, but it cannot be helped when he has already signed four years of his life away. “I think he’s still hoping that you would apologize and allow him to coddle you for all of eternity, which I suppose would not aid you in your quest to put a ring on his finger and a bite upon his neck,” she muses, making a torrid blush erupt on Viktor’s face. Ever since he had decided that he shall be Yuuri’s husband, Viktor has made no secret of his intentions, and so everyone—except Yuuri who still thinks the whole thing a jape—knows what it is he intends to do. “Do try not to get shot or I shall be very cross with you.”

The gruff warning has Viktor smiling as he remembers that brashness was Mari’s way of showing affection. “I’ll try my very best,” he promises, affecting a most serious look, before asking, “Is Yuuri still angry?”

“Angry?” Mari echoes incredulously, shaking her head with a laugh. “He’s absolutely furious with you.”

Mama Hiroko tuts.

“Don’t mind her, Vitya. I’m sure Yuuri will be glad to see you.”

 

.

 

Heedless of Mari’s words, Viktor proceeds to head upstairs after saying his goodbyes, his footfalls heavy on the carpeted corridor. The path to Yuuri’s room is a familiar one, ingrained into Viktor’s very bones. It matters not if it was the Katsuki’s Brighton estate or their London home, Viktor will always unerringly find Yuuri’s rooms—to demand that Yuuri pay attention to him, play with him, brush his hair, and teach him how to fence.

Viktor has spent most of his boyhood days with Yuuri, and yet he yearns for more, yearns to spend the rest of his days by Yuuri’s side.

His knuckles rap against Yuuri’s door and Viktor doesn’t have to wait long before a muffled, “Enter,” sounds from beyond it. Steeling himself, Viktor takes in another shuddering breath, taking in the smell of herbs burning in the distance, before opening the door to Yuuri’s room.

Only his white knuckled grip around the doorknob keeps him upright as Yuuri’s scent—of apples and the freshness of spring—assaults his senses, thick and cloying in his nose and on his tongue even with the menthol that Yuuri uses to dull it. It is impossible not to so he breathes in each lungful greedily, knowing that this will be the last time he will be able to drown in Yuuri’s scent, and wishing that he was brave enough to ask Yuuri for a token, a handkerchief that carries Yuuri’s perfume so that Viktor will never be without it, but he knows that such a request is too vulgar and indecent, and that even Yuuri, who is determined to treat him like a boy still, may take issue.

Swallowing down the dryness in his throat, Viktor closes the door behind him with a small, almost imperceptible click, and finally looks around the room to see Yuuri sitting by the window, a carefully blank mask set upon his beautiful face. In his powder blue dress, he looks perfectly composed with not a hair out of place, untouchable if not for the minute tremble of his lips, and the red that lines his eyes as if he had been crying the entire night.

“Yuuri,” Viktor begins, heart sinking to the bottom of his stomach because he can think of only one reason why Yuuri would be crying, and he quickly makes his approach only to be stopped by a piercing look and a baffling question.

“Is that how you plan on wearing your hair?”

It’s an unexpected question, one that has Viktor touching the ends of his hair and wondering why it should matter. “I—yes.”

“That won’t do.” Yuuri tuts, throwing a cushion down on the floor by his bare feet, the sight of which has Viktor averting his gaze, and motioning towards the vanity with a flick of his wrist. “Fetch the brush and come here.”

Viktor wastes no time in doing so, following Yuuri’s words almost thoughtlessly, his feet carrying him to the vanity where he plucks out the wooden hairbrush and then to the cushion, where he sits down with his back turned to Yuuri. He has lost count of just how many times he has asked Yuuri to brush his hair over the years that the entire thing is very much like a ritual, and Viktor feels as if he’s fallen into a haze as Yuuri frees his hair from the tight ponytail and begins the long and arduous process of brushing it and arranging the strands into a neat braid.

Like this, Viktor can pretend that he is a boy again and isn’t bound for four years of military service that will take him far away from Yuuri.

Silence fills the room as Yuuri continues with his task, and as much as Viktor wishes to offer platitudes to soothe Yuuri’s ire, he can muster not the courage to break the quiet, content for now to have Yuuri’s hands and attentions on him. However, the silence lasts for no more than a few minutes before Yuuri thwarts it.

“You have not the slightest consideration for my nerves at all,” Yuuri starts, the smooth cadence of his fingers as he twists the braid into a neat bun betraying none of the building tension in his tone. Viktor can smell Yuuri’s agitation, sharp on his nose, cutting through the trance he’d fallen into and bringing him back to the present. “I don’t understand why you have to do this. You’re the heir to your family’s fortune, you’re learned in the sciences and the arts.” Yuuri’s voice hitches, and Viktor turns to look over his shoulder just in time to see Yuuri angrily wiping at his tears, cheeks a blotchy red. “You have leave to do whatever it is you want and you’re going to join the bloody army?”

The profanity shocks Viktor into moving so that he is on his knees in front of Yuuri, and he reaches out to take Yuuri’s hands in his, and says in a whisper, “I have to do this.”

 _For you_ , Viktor does not say, for it will break Yuuri’s heart if he is to find out that the reason why Viktor has joined the regiment is him. Because Yuuri still looks at Viktor and sees the boy who toddled after him and not the man who loves him not like a brother and wishes to have him for a spouse. If Viktor wants even the smallest sliver of a chance to court Yuuri, then he will have to change—become someone worthy of Yuuri’s heart and all that it entails. He cannot be Yuuri’s husband when Yuuri still thinks of him as a younger brother and still thinks of his proposals as japes, and so Viktor must go; he must kill the boy and let the man be born.

“But what if you get hurt?” Yuuri asks, voice small as the dam of his control breaks and he begins to cry, hands clutching at Viktor’s desperately. “What if you don’t come back?”

Viktor frees a hand from Yuuri’s hold, reaching up to tilt Yuuri’s chin so that he can look into those warm eyes that have enchanted him since the very beginning. “I’ll come back,” he promises, voice laced with a conviction that has Yuuri’s tears ceasing. “I promised to marry you, didn’t I?” Viktor says as he swipes a thumb at Yuuri’s cheek, and the comment earns him a short burst of laughter that does nothing but strengthen his resolve to leave, because it may perhaps be the only way for Yuuri to take his words as they are.

“You did,” Yuuri says after an age, lifting his hands to cup at Viktor’s cheeks, caressing them almost as a lover would. “And I expect you to keep your promise, else I will have to live out my days unmarried and alone.”

Viktor knows that Yuuri is only teasing as he is wont to whenever they talk of the proposal he had given Yuuri when he was just a boy of eleven, but the words have his cheeks burning all the same, his belly filling with want. Despite what Yakov or Yuri might say, Viktor has always had simple wants and needs; it just so happens that Viktor wants and needs Yuuri. “I’ll come home to you, and when I do, I’m going to marry you.”

Looking at him consideringly, Yuuri only smiles in response and lets his grip on Viktor’s cheeks slacken, but not before brushing his lips against the smooth skin on Viktor’s forehead, a whisper of a kiss. It leaves Viktor wanting more, and only the fear of Yuuri’s rejection stays his hand and keeps Viktor sitting back down on the cushion, watching as Yuuri reaches for a valisse that he hands to Viktor with a blush powdering his cheeks.

“Mama and I prepared this for you,” Yuuri explains as Viktor begins perusing the contents of the bag which seems to have a collection of supplies. “It isn’t much but there’s tea, jam, sweetmeats, and I have yet to put it there, but I’ve asked cook to prepare katsudon for you.” Viktor can only stare at the bounty before him, offered to him without a second thought, and Viktor thinks that between the supplies Yakov had furnished him with and the contents of the valisse in his lap, he would be living rather comfortably for the first few months in the regiment and be the envy of everyone. “There’s also paper and ink, so that you can write to me all about the adventures you’re going to have,” Yuuri adds as Viktor takes out a sheaf of foolscaps and unearths a small bottle of ink.

All the breath in his lungs leaves him in a rush and the valisse falls heavily on the carpeted floor from suddenly nerveless fingers as Viktor all but collapses into Yuuri’s arms in an embrace.

“Thank you,” Viktor says in a mumble. With him on his knees, he’s able to bury his nose in the crook of Yuuri’s neck, an act that he has not been able to do ever since he grew almost as tall as Yuuri. Tightening his hold around Yuuri’s trim waist, Viktor nuzzles closer, careful not to brush against the simple satin choker that Yuuri wears to hide his mating gland. Not once has Viktor cried because of his looming departure, but he feels tears threaten at the edges of his vision now at the reminder of what he would have to give up for four years. “You’ll wait for me, won’t you?” Viktor finds himself blurting out, heart stuck in his throat, because what if some nameless suitor sweeps Yuuri off his feet while Viktor was away? What if _Yuri_ does?

“Of course I will,” Yuuri murmurs in reply, pressing another kiss to the top of Viktor’s head as he runs gentle hands down Viktor’s back. “I’ll always be waiting for you.”

Before his hold on Yuuri can tighten even further until it would be impossible for them to be separated, Viktor forces himself to let go and asks, “Where’s Vicchan?” Viktor came here to say his goodbyes to the Katsukis after all, and as much as he used to whine and complain about Yuuri’s poodle, Viktor has developed something of a kinship with Vicchan and it would simply not do for him to not say goodbye.

“Vicchan?” Yuuri echoes, blinking in surprise before looking around his room. “He must be under the bed,” he concludes when a cursory glance at the small pallet set in the far corner yields nothing. “You know how he likes to sleep there. Are you going to say your goodbyes?”

“Yes, I am.” Viktor gets to his feet slowly, Yuuri doing the same as he steps into a pair of soft slippers. “I have to make sure he won’t get any ideas that I’ve stopped being your Viktor just because I won’t be underfoot all the time.”

Biting down on a smile, Yuuri nods, adopting an air of gravitas. “Right, of course. Shall I give the two of you some privacy?” He asks, and adding when Viktor nods, “I’ll have to check on the katsudon anyway.”

Yuuri draws him into another warm embrace that Viktor eagerly returns, before making his way out of the room, leaving Viktor alone. As soon as the door closes behind Yuuri, Viktor gets on his hands and knees in front of the bed and lifts the bedclothes to find Vicchan ensconced in a pile of clothes, blinking up at him and yawning.

“Hello, Vicchan,” Viktor greets, carefully picking Vicchan up and setting him down on Yuuri’s bed, putting them on the same height as Viktor settles back on his haunches. “I’m going away for quite a long time, and I need you to take care of Yuuri for me,” he says, and if not for the glimmer of intelligence in Vicchan’s eyes, Viktor would feel extremely foolish. “I’ll come back stronger for sure, but for now I’ll trust you to protect him and scare off all his other suitors, especially Yura.”

Vicchan barks in what Viktor can only hope is agreement.

“It’s a promise, then,” He says, holding out a hand and is rewarded with a small, furry paw and a high-pitched yip. “From one Viktor to another.”

Vicchan woofs.

 

.

 

_Dearest Yuuri,_

_I have arrived safely at my destination, and I have never been gladder than I am now to finally be free from travelling by carriage. I fear that the rocking motions and the sound of nickering horses shall stay with me forevermore after almost an entire week of travel. The camp is located a couple of hours’ walk away from a small town, and the training has been so tiring that I have only gotten the chance to write you now._

_[...]_

_I remain steadfast in my promise to come home to you, Yuuri, so please do not waste your time worrying about me._

_Yours always,_

_Vitya_

.

_My Dear Vitya,_

_It gladdens my heart to hear that you have found a friend in the midst of your training. Young Mr. Giacometti sounds a delight and I do hope that the two of you are refraining from getting involved in too much trouble._

_[...]_

_I am rather uncertain if you remember her, but my good friend, Ms. Yang, has finally set her cap upon someone. She will be taking on a young omega by the name of Mr. Leroy for a husband, and we are all very eager to see her wed. The ton has been a-titter regarding their whirlwind of a courtship, as it should be, for Ms. Yang’s and Mr. Leroy’s families are sparing no expense for their wedding._

_However, all this talk of marriage has its inconveniences. Countless times have I been subjected to the dreaded question of when the announcement regarding my own nuptials shall grace the newspapers, and I never quite know what to say. I suppose I can tell them that I am only waiting on my handsome military man, but then I know that you will break my poor heart for some younger, much more beautiful omega, someday soon._

_[...]_

_Please do keep yourself safe. I cannot bear to think sometimes that you are out there, so close to danger, while I spend my nights safe in my featherbed. Vicchan and I will always be waiting for you to come home, so make sure that you do._

_All my love,_

_Yuuri_

.

_My Dear Vitya,_

_I know not when this missive will reach you or if it will even reach you, but I can only hope that wherever you are, you are keeping yourself safe. You have to. You have to come home, my dear Vitya. If I have to ride out there to bring you home myself, I would._

_Please write back at your earliest convenience._

_All my love,_

_Yuuri_

.

_Dearest Yuuri,_

_I am alive and well. I apologize for the length of time it took to write to you again, but certain events have taken place, causing me to be indisposed and incapable of writing. I still cannot write for too long, but I want to assure you that I am all right. I am also pleased to tell you that I have a dog now. Her name is Makka and she looks much like Vicchan, only bigger, and I cannot wait for you to meet her._

_You may tell whoever asks you that you do have a military man waiting to come home to you, because I intend to keep my promises. All of them._

_Yours always,_

_Vitya_

.

_My Dear Vitya,_

_Time passes by so quickly and I can hardly believe that it has been years since you’ve left with the regiment. Not a day comes where I do not wish that you had never left at all, for I miss your presence dearly, and I await for your return most eagerly. You may think me rather melancholic and sentimental, but Mrs. Mirai has been cleaning out the attic and has brought out my old fencing kit, and with it the fond memories of our summers in Brighton._

_[...]_

_Mama has asked me to send you a few things to remind you of home, and I hope that they reach you safely. I have also included a new handkerchief to replace the one I gave you before you left, and as you can hopefully see, I’ve gotten much better at embroidery. Vicchan and I saw a poodle at Vauxhall Gardens the other day and I wanted to try my hand at embroidering one. I hope it looks like your Makka._

_All my love,_

_Yuuri_

.

_Dearest Yuuri,_

_I hope and pray that this package reaches you in time for the celebration of your birth and in one piece. I have paid the messenger a handsome sum to make sure it does, but the postal service can be treacherous and unreliable. I saw this during my travels and immediately thought of you, and I can only hope that you do the same when you wear it._

_[...]_

_The regiment will be heading back to London in February, mayhap even sooner if the weather permits. After nearly four years, I will finally return home, and I cannot wait for you and Vicchan to meet Makka. She is very eager to meet you both._

_I remain, my dear Yuuri, yours forever and always,_

_Vitya_

 

.

 

The lace is exquisite.

It’s a dark blue color that stands out against the warm cream color of the box, obviously meant to contrast starkly against Yuuri’s skin. The delicate lacework blends seamlessly into smooth satin, and there is not a single shred of doubt in Yuuri’s mind that the slip of fabric that Viktor had sent him must have cost a pretty pound, perhaps even a small fortune, and any omega would be honored to wear it on their neck.

Any omega except mayhap Yuuri, who can only stare with dawning horror at the choker, an unwanted realization careening violently into the forefront of his mind, because the strip of fabric cannot be anything but a _choker_ , and Viktor— _his sweet, little Vitya_ —had asked him _to wear it whilst thinking of him_.

Long has Yuuri denied the reality and the depth of Viktor’s affections, unwilling to think of Viktor as anything other than his charming little brother despite all evidences saying otherwise. Yuuri isn’t stupid, nor is he blind to Viktor’s fleeting looks and lingering touches, but he’d hoped that his willful ignorance of the heat in Viktor’s eyes and the truth in his words whenever he brings up the proposal, would be enough of a deterrent, but as evidenced by the parcel sitting on Yuuri’s lap, he’d convinced absolutely no one but himself.

There’s no denying what the choker means, it’s a present whose meaning Yuuri has no hope of misconstruing; Viktor has given him a _courting gift_ —a most scandalous courting gift at that, because the choker, once worn by its recipient, is meant only to be taken off by its giver so that they can replace it with a mating bite. 

Viktor might as well have asked Yuuri to sop up his slick with a handkerchief and send the soiled fabric to him.

“—well? Who’s it from?”

Sara’s voice, soft as it is, has Yuuri startling, serving as a very much unwanted reminder that he is not alone, and is, as a matter of fact, in the middle of afternoon tea with his friends, who are all looking at him with thinly-veiled interest. The conversation, centered around Mr. de la Iglesia’s fumbling attempts to court Guang-hong, has ceased, and it seems that Yuuri’s conundrum may soon be the next topic to be talked about which is absolutely the last thing that Yuuri wants. Pursing his lips, Yuuri quickly hides the choker, but unfortunately loses the letter to Phichit, who quickly makes a grab for it and crows when he sees who the sender is.

“Oh, it’s from _darling Vitya_!” Phichit informs their little group, laughing delightedly and dancing away when Yuuri swats at him.

Yuuri’s about to rise from his seat and reclaim the letter from Phichit’s hands when Guang-hong asks, “Do you mean to say that Vitya is real?” The question has Yuuri spluttering and everyone else who knows Viktor laughing uproariously, and Guang-hong falters, confused. “I thought—”

“You thought that Yuuri made him up to get out of dancing and scare his suitors away?” Sara asks before Yuuri can say anything to the contrary. Lying that he’s waiting on a handsome, military man is admittedly not one of Yuuri’s proudest moments, but it had been increasingly effective in driving away his most relentless suitors that he’d just continued using the excuse, and with Vitya sending letters and little trinkets almost every fortnight, no one has ever been able to disprove his lie. Yuuri never meant for it to continue for so long and he lets out an aggrieved sigh, burying his face in his hands as Sara proceeds to say, “If I didn’t know him myself, I’d think so too, but Vitya is very, very real and is absolutely enamored with Yuuri.” 

“As his cousin, I’d almost feel offended because Vitya doesn’t even write to us nearly as often as he does you, but then again, he’s not trying to marry us,” Mila adds with a wide grin. “What did he send you this time around?” She asks, eyeing the box on his lap. “Did he finally give you a real ring to replace the ribbon he’d tied on your finger?”

“Whatever it is, Vitya wants Yuuri to think of him when he wears it,” Phichit supplies helpfully when Yuuri doesn’t answer before erupting into giggles, and Yuuri has half a mind to throw his shoe at him.

“He sent me a choker.”

Yuuri doesn’t mean to say it, it simply spills out of his lips, and he’s almost glad for it during the first few seconds when he’s blessed with a stunned silence as everyone turns wide, disbelieving eyes at him, until their silence is replaced with raucous laughter.

“It isn’t funny!” Yuuri protests rather uselessly, a torrid blush burning high on his cheeks and reaching up to his ears.

Phichit guffaws and wipes at his tears, and Yuuri knows from the look on his face that Phichit wil never allow him to forget about this. Along with Mari and Aunt Minako, Phichit had warned him countless times about Viktor and how he won’t stay a boy forever. “Please, Yuuri, it’s absolutely hilarious,” Phichit giggles, and Yuuri frowns, expression turning sour.

“Now you can’t ever claim that he isn’t serious about his intentions towards you,” Isabella, who has been suspiciously silent all this time, quips, and Yuuri directs his glare at her next.

“He did propose to you at eleven,” Mila muses once she’s finished laughing at his plight. “It was only a matter of time that he does this.”

Stealing the letter back from Phichit’s clutches, Yuuri grumbles, “I was hoping he’d forget.”

Phichit shakes his head and nods towards the box in his lap. “Unfortunately for you, he obviously hasn’t.”

Yuuri groans.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the letters included here are the more pertinent ones for the story, but please just think of Viktor writing often to Yuuri during that 4-year period and cry with me
> 
> next chapter may be a bit delayed as i'm still in the midst of working on it, but we'll see if my fever breaks anytime soon
> 
> 1 comment = 1 belly rub for vicchan and makka asjdhjakdh
> 
> (EDIT: A lot of you have been asking and it's sort of implied that Viktor has presented already, and as an alpha too. I didn't feel the need to have a whole thing about it, but now I realize it must be confusing for a lot of people, but anyway, yeah, Viktor presented as an alpha before he left for the military, but Yuuri was still treating him like a kid even with this, which is why he felt he needed to go.)


	4. nineteen/twenty-three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The whole ton has been talking about it, you know, how some mysterious alpha has finally swept the elusive Mr. Katsuki off his feet," Mari drawls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soz for the late update!! UH some heavy irl stuff happened very recently and I'm still kinda drained tbh, but I figure I'd do something useful and productive with my time so hey! New chapter! This was supposed to be longer, but I felt that the chapter ends in a pretty good place, story-wise and is in keeping with the whole mood of this chapter.
> 
> Not as regency-toned as the others bc IM STRUGGLING GUH but I tried. I also know,,,nothing about fencing aside from what I gleaned from my googling so yeah im gomen
> 
> Thanks to lunardistance for letting me whine at her over telegram about this HAHAHA IM SORRY I KEEP SPOILING STUFF FOR U BB
> 
> Did a quick read-through. Find it in your hearts to forgive me for any glaring mistakes.

“You could at least try and pretend that you’re enjoying yourself.”

Had Yuuri the energy or the desire to appear as if attending yet another ball is the best thing that he can possibly be doing on a Friday evening, then mayhap he can deign to acquiesce to Phichit’s urging, but Yuuri is in possession of neither, and so he merely swallows down a mouthful of claret and mourns the quiet evening of reading and embroidering he could have had, if Phichit not dragged him out of his bedroom. Nearly five years have passed since his debut into the haute ton and Yuuri still had not the patience for its practices. He still acts, as Mari says, a willful green boy with the way he sneaks out of balls to run around brandishing his foil at the salle and deliberately spurns his suitors with flimsy excuses, only acting as a genteel and proper omega when it suited him.

Tonight’s ball, as grand as it prizes itself to be, is absolutely not one such situation where it would suit Yuuri to behave as if there was nowhere else he would rather be, and he tells Phichit so.

“I had planned to have a quiet night, safely tucked in my bed. Do forgive my disgruntlement at having been bid to attend a ball that is neither quiet nor safe.”

“Oh la, sir, spare me your lies,” Phichit says, rolling his eyes as he reaches for a glass of port from a passing servant. Before Yuuri can muster any indignation for his friend’s not entirely baseless accusations, Phichit continues in a harsh whisper, “You were planning on sneaking out of your bedroom window to go see your precious Vitya despite your Mama forbidding you to.”

Yuuri merely takes another sip of claret, unwilling to implicate himself further, as if his pointed silence isn’t admission enough.

The regiment arrived early in the afternoon, countless young men and women finally returning home after four grueling years, and Yuuri had been ready to abandon his responsibilities for the day so that he might go and visit Viktor, and he would have done so if not for the note Viktor had sent saying that he wishes to rest first and that he would make a call first thing tomorrow morning, and his Mama’s disapproving _“You let that boy rest first, Yuuri. He’ll want to be on his best when you have your reunion.”_

“I just want to see him,” Yuuri mutters after a long beat of silence, his empty glass abandoned on a nearby table as he sets about fiddling with the ribbon on his dress. “It has been four years since I have laid eyes on Vitya and I can’t possibly be blamed for wanting to see him at the earliest convenience.”

His words earn him a raised eyebrow and Phichit asks, “Are you so eager to marry him?”

“What? No!” Yuuri denies, vehemence coming off of him in waves, and even through the oils he’d anointed himself with, applied thickly on his neck and wrists, even on the sensitive insides of his thighs, Yuuri can smell his own agitation curling up in the air between them. After Viktor had sent him the lace choker for his birthday— _a courting gift_ , a tiny voice in his mind reminds him—his friends and family have been relentless in their reminders to take care in how he treats with Viktor now, as if Yuuri has been anything but careful about Viktor’s feelings. “Don’t be foolish.”

“My dear Yuuri, there is only one of us being foolish here and it certainly isn’t me,” Phichit says, interrupting him with an ease borne of years of friendship. “Surely you aren’t still denying the sincerity of his regard for you?”

“No, I’m not.” It has never been a question of sincerity, Yuuri knows, for Viktor is one of the most earnest people he has ever had the pleasure of meeting, and even with his willful ignorance, Yuuri cannot deny that Viktor’s promises have always been true.    

With a long suffering sigh, Phichit settles down on the seat beside Yuuri, expression taking on an exasperated mien as he crosses his arms across his chest. “You’ll be able to see him tomorrow. What’s one more ball?” Phichit asks, and Yuuri sees it for the escape it is; Phichit won’t press him about Viktor anymore, at least for tonight.

“I don’t like attending balls, as you well know.” They were always teeming with alphas on the hunt for a mate and omegas filling the air with their scent to signal that they were more than available for a tumble or a mating bite, whichever the case may be, their ostentatious chokers glittering with rubies and sapphires calling attention to their unmarred necks.  

Phichit chortles, shaking his head as if he has not heard Yuuri utter the same words countless times already. “You, my friend, are completely hopeless,” he says, before adding with an enigmatic little smile, “Why don’t you look around? You might just find someone worth dancing with.”

“I highly doubt that.” Yuuri has not danced outside of his family’s and his Aunt Minako’s ballroom for years, and in the very rare chance that he would, his preferred partners only included those in his close circle of friends. He has perfected the art of turning down would-be suitors, his dance card blessedly empty just as he likes it.

Phichit suddenly lets out a thoughtful hum that has Yuuri looking up and following where Phichit’s gaze was directed to see a familiar face heading towards them, and Yuuri feels his stomach turn unpleasantly. Mr. Plisetsky cuts a harsh swathe through the throng, severe in his dark suit, and although the years has soothed Yuuri’s dislike of the man, he still cannot help the way his hackles rise as Mr. Plisetsky looms ever closer. He rises smoothly from his seat, Phichit doing the same beside him when Mr. Plisetsky stops in front of them, and they exchange mindless and empty pleasantries as society dictates.

“Mr. Chulanont, Mr. Katsuki,” Mr. Plisetsky greets, before turning his eyes to Yuuri, his green gaze droll. “What a pleasant surprise to find you here,” he says, and yet the expression upon his face and the tone of his voice betrays his meaning, because it seems that Mr. Plisetsky, for some unknown reason, is operating under impression that Yuuri would be present at tonight’s ball even without Phichit’s efforts.

Mr. Plisetsky’s supposition could not be farther from the truth and Yuuri is quick to disabuse him of the notion. “The fault lies with Mr. Chulanont, I’m afraid,” Yuuri says, directing an unimpressed expression at Phichit, who appears curiously conflicted at the exchange.  

“I see.” Mr. Plisetsky, in comparison, looks heartened at his pronouncement, and Yuuri feels as if he is somehow not privy to a very important detail, and he likes it not one bit, especially when Mr. Plisetsky and Phichit exchange a loaded look. “In that case, would you mind terribly if I take advantage of your presence and ask--”

Yuuri never finds out what it is Mr. Plisetsky means to ask of him because a sudden commotion by the entrance hall stops all conversation in the ballroom in its middling tracks. For a moment, Yuuri thinks that some young omega has fainted, a terribly common occurrence during one of the more crowded balls, at least until he sees the familiar yet strange figure striding into the ballroom, clad in the distinctive red uniform of a military officer, and feels his heart stop, the rest of the world falling away in a hush.

For right there, standing just underneath the glittering chandelier, stands Viktor, back from the regiment, and looking nothing like the boy Yuuri knows and loves like a brother, but looking every inch the alpha Yuuri can love as a man.

“ _Vitya_.”

Gone is the long silver hair that Yuuri remembers brushing and braiding night after night, replaced instead by a shorter style, with a long fringe that covers the left side of a face that has lost its softness, the refined bone structure that Yuuri has only ever seen hints of all those years ago coming to the forefront. This Viktor is a stranger to Yuuri, and he would feel a semblance of worry, or perhaps even loss, if not for the fact that Viktor’s eyes—bluer than the ocean and the sky combined, bluer than the cornflowers Viktor used to pick in the gardens much to the gardener’s chagrin—are the same as they were when Yuuri met him twelve years ago. Viktor may look different now, but he will always be, as Viktor’s letters always say, _Yuuri’s Vitya_.

“I did tell you to look around,” Phichit quips with an air of smugness, making it very clear that he had known that Viktor would be in attendance at tonight’s ball, and Yuuri will be sure to make his feelings on the matter known at a much later date, but for now, Yuuri’s only desire is to draw Viktor into his arms and never let go, fill the gaping maw in his breast that Viktor’s leaving had wrought.

Yuuri does not remember moving, but the next thing he knows, he’s already close enough to touch, breathe in Viktor’s scent of cool winter and warm spice, sharper now with none of the powdery softness it used to have. It evokes within Yuuri an emotion so profound, radiating from his very core to the tips of his fingers, leaving him stumbling straight into Viktor’s open arms and they collide in the middle of the ballroom in a most violent embrace. Four years ago, Viktor had been of the same height as him, but now he towers over Yuuri, and if Viktor had been any other alpha, Yuuri would feel threatened, and yet Yuuri only feels a sense of contentment as he buries his face into the crook of Viktor’s neck, luxuriating in the feeling of Viktor’s arms around him.

“You’re here,” he mumbles, lips pressed against the warm skin on Viktor’s neck and feeling tears tease at the corners of his eyes, because Yuuri has been waiting for four long years, and even with Viktor warm and solid in his arms, he can scarcely believe this to be real. “ _You’re home_.”

Above him, Viktor barks out a laugh, pulling Yuuri ever closer until Yuuri can hear the frantic beat of Viktor’s heart, feel his pulse a-quiver beneath his lips. “I did promise that I would come home to you.”  

They stay like that for what feels like an age, until Viktor eases away from their embrace, and Yuuri is treated to a familiar, bright smile that he finds himself echoing, his cheeks dimpling in delight.

“ _Yuuri_ ,” Viktor breathes out, and hearing his name uttered in that voice after so many years without feels like a breath of fresh air.

There are multitudes of things that Yuuri wishes to say, hundreds of questions he wants to ask, but what he says when he finally manages to speak again is, “You cut your hair.”  

“I did, yes,” Viktor says with an amused shake of his head, and Yuuri is caught by the way Viktor’s silver hair falls over his eye, hiding it from view. “The military didn’t take too kindly with my long hair.”  

“You never mentioned it in your letters.” If Viktor had, then surely Yuuri would have remembered; he has read Viktor’s letters countless times and knows their contents by heart, can recite them as easily as he could Shakespeare’s sonnets.

With a shrug, Viktor says softly, “I didn’t want you to worry.”

Yuuri scoffs, because if he knew how to stop worrying about Viktor, he would have done so ages ago; worrying never did much good to his poor nerves after all. There’s an admonishment already waiting on his tongue when he suddenly recalls the note Viktor had sent to them earlier.

“You said you were going to rest!” Yuuri scolds, taking a step back and swatting at Viktor’s chest which does nothing but call attention to the fact Viktor has not only become taller, but broader too, no longer the fey youth that Yuuri still sees in his mind’s eye when he thinks of Viktor, but a man grown.

Before Yuuri can pull his hand back, Viktor catches it in his and brings it to his lips, and for a dizzying moment, Yuuri wishes that he’d done away with gloves tonight so that he could feel the touch without the barrier of satin. He starts to take his hand away, horrified at himself for thinking such wantonness, but Viktor holds him fast and refuses to let go, gazing at him with eyes that has an unfamiliar, yet not completely unwanted heat trickling down his spine.

“I wanted to surprise you,” Viktor whispers into the air between them, and beneath the silken choker he’d worn tonight, Yuuri feels the insistent throb of his mating gland—a warning, a harbinger of his doom. “And I wanted to ask you to dance in an official capacity, that is, if there’s still a spot on your dance card.”

Yuuri ought to say no, he ought to go and reject Viktor’s advances, instead, he says, “You can have my entire dance card if you want.”

“I would love nothing more.”

 

.

 

The very last thing that Yuuri wants to do is wake up to his sister standing over his bed and detailing everything that he’s done wrong before he has even taken his morning tea, but that is what happens because Yuuri has the most rotten luck and has been afflicted with the worst sister ever.

“I thought you had no plans of marrying him?”

Yuuri groans, pulling his blankets over his head in a futile attempt to block out the rest of Mari’s words and her no doubt smug countenance. The early morning light streaming in through the windows has brought much needed clarity to his hazy memories of last night, and he sees now how he has erred, his elation from seeing Viktor after so many years leading him to folly. He had resolved to deter Viktor’s attempts at courting him, but all Yuuri has accomplished was to encourage his affections even more with how he’d acted last night.

Yuuri can’t even blame the claret he’d indulged in beforehand because he had been more than fully aware of his actions, and he’d chosen to dance his first until his very last set with Viktor last night.

He’d enjoyed every single one too.

The sheets are harshly pulled away from his grasp, and Yuuri barely resists the urge to hiss when he sees Mari peering down at him with an unimpressed expression. He’d hated that look when he was but a boy, and he hates it now as a man grown. “And yet you danced with him the entire night,” she drawls, shaking her head before continuing, as if she was reading from today’s newspaper, “The whole ton has been talking about it, you know, how some mysterious alpha has finally swept the elusive Mr. Katsuki off his feet.” Mari quirks an amused little smile at him, prompting Yuuri to throw one of his goose down pillows at her, which she expertly dodges. “All your previous suitors are heartbroken, of course, as they should be.”

“I didn’t mean for it to happen! He kept asking me to dance, and you know how I can’t ever say no to Vitya.” He grumbles, ignoring Mari’s little quip about his _suitors_ , but even as he says the words, Yuuri knows them to be false, because he’d had plenty of opportunities last night to say _no_ to Viktor, and yet he had not, for a part of him, a wanton and base part, had enjoyed the way Viktor had held him last night as they danced through countless quadrilles and more than a handful of waltzes, as if Yuuri was some precious thing to be treasured and desired, and Yuuri taken leave of his senses like some newly-flowered omega.

He knows that he ought not to feel this way. They had grown up together, played together, and for the longest time, Yuuri has only ever seen Viktor as a brother, and to think of him as a man, a suitor, a _lover_ , feels like a perversion of their shared childhood.

“Does that mean you’re going to say yes when he finally asks you to marry him?” Mari asks in a tone that speaks volumes of her exasperation, one dark eyebrow raised in question. They have had this conversation countless times before, and even Yuuri has tired of it.

Still, he answers as he has always done, despite his words losing whatever semblance of credibility they held. “No,” he says, the word tasting like a bitter lie on his tongue. “Of course not.”

With a shake of her head and a long, drawn-out groan, Mari falls on her back next to him with a rustle of bedclothes, prompting him to sit up so that he may roll his eyes at her trite display. “You should hurry downstairs, then,” she says after several beats of silence, a grin slowly coming into being on her face. “Because I’m quite certain that Vitya is already asking Mama and Papa for their blessing so that he can finally marry you.”

“He’s what?!”

Mari’s laughter follows after his heels as he stumbles out of his bedroom, into the corridor, and towards the stairwell. He barely has time to throw on a sleeping gown over his thin chemise, and the peach-colored satin billows behind him as he continues his way downstairs, bare feet slapping harshly against the hardwood floors.

He ends up scaring and scandalizing more than a few servants along the way to the Lilac Room—his Mama’s personal drawing-room where she preferred to take calls from guests—but time is of the essence, and Yuuri doesn’t even bother to knock as he pushes the double doors open, only to be promptly thrown down onto his back by a very large and very excitable poodle, who seems very resolute to slobber all over his face. A laugh startles itself out of him, and Yuuri doesn’t hesitate to run his hands all over the poodle’s dusty brown coat whilst crooning praises.

“Makka, нет!”

Both Yuuri and the poodle— _Makka_ —stiffen at the voice, turning as one to look at Viktor, who’s striding over to them in a hurry, concern writ clearly on his handsome face which quickly acquires a most fetching flush when his eyes settle upon Yuuri, the bright blue of them reduced to a thin, glacial ring. The gaze has Yuuri becoming painfully aware of his scandalous state of dishabille, and he feels an answering blush burn on his cheeks when he notices just how high his chemise had ridden up, exposing him from leg to thigh, the thin cotton barely covering the molten and suddenly insistent heat at the apex of his thighs.

Viktor lets out a strangled noise, falling to his knees and coaxing Makka away; his eyes remain carefully averted, reminding Yuuri of all the times Mari had sent Viktor to fetch him whenever he swam at the lake, and how Viktor would, every single time, stumble blindly to the shore, holding out towels and clothes, never once peeking. “Yuuri,” he begins, only to be interrupted by Vicchan barking and running up to Yuuri’s side, stopping momentarily to give Makka’s tail a playful nip—establishing his dominance, even though he’s barely even a quarter of Makka’s size.

“Where’s Mama?” Yuuri asks once he has gotten to his feet, sleeping gown now tied securely about himself. The Lilac Room is empty save for the four of them, showing no evidence at all that anyone aside from Viktor and their dogs, had been inside before Yuuri had come barrelling in.

Head tilting in confusion, Viktor says, “I was told she was out in the gardens with the Madame Okukawa,” each word enunciated carefully. A dark realization begins to niggle at the back of Yuuri’s mind as he stares into Viktor’s increasingly puzzled countenance.

“You—you haven’t met with her or Papa?” Yuuri asks, Mari’s words ringing incessantly in his ears.

“No,” comes Viktor’s answer, and Yuuri feels faint, a righteous indignation beginning to bubble in his chest. “Should I have?”

Oh, Yuuri was going to commit the most gruesome of murders when he sees Mari later, and not even his Mama will be able to stop him. He’ll relish it too, because Mari will deserve what was coming for her for tricking him and allowing him to present himself to Viktor when _he was still in his nightclothes_.

“Tea?” Yuuri manages to croak out, his panicked gaze flitting to the tea set left untouched on the far table, and he hastily sets upon the chance to put some distance between them before he is caught under the intoxicating thrall of Viktor’s scent. “You still take yours with a ridiculous amount of jam, yes?”

His hands tremble violently, making the fine bone china clatter and clink as he pours out two cups of black tea—prepared especially for Viktor—a cloud of fragrant steam joining the scent of Viktor’s musk already thick and cloying in the air. It’s overwhelming, so much so that Yuuri notices not Viktor walking up behind him, hands settling on the table, arms caging Yuuri in.

“Yuuri.” Viktor’s breath is hot against the smooth hollow behind his ear, and Yuuri cannot help the shiver that tingles down his spine, his heart thrumming wildly inside the cage of his chest. He’s been caught and Yuuri’s no longer certain if he wants to escape. “Much as I appreciate the gesture, I’m not here to partake in morning tea.”

 _No_ , Yuuri thinks rather hysterically as the heat between his thighs turn slick, threatening to drip down his thighs, Viktor was hoping to partake of _him_.

“ _Yuuri_ —”

Before Viktor can move even closer, Yuuri is whirling around in a flurry of peach-colored satin, one hand planted firmly at the very center of Viktor’s chest, keeping him away. He feels out of sorts, as if he is standing right at the precipice and one more step, just one more word from Viktor will have him hurtling down towards the unknown and dark corners of his heart.

Of course, Viktor harbors not the slightest desire to keep Yuuri away from the reality of his emotions, and he is perhaps the most keen at having Yuuri face them, and so there is not much surprise to be had when Viktor takes his hand in his and lifts it to his lips and presses a soft kiss to the meat of Yuuri’s hand. It’s highly improper, and Yuuri should be chastising Viktor for his actions, but he cannot even muster the wherewithal to pulls his hand away, can only shiver with each brush of Viktor’s lips against his palm, close to where his scent gland hides beneath the thin skin of his wrist.

“Please, surely you must know by now how sincere my regard is for you,” Viktor murmurs, an entreaty that plucks at Yuuri’s very heartstrings so that he is beset with an emotion that threatens to consume him entire. Yuuri knows not what kind of expression he wears on his face right at this exact moment, entirely too lost in his mind, but it has Viktor saying with urgency lacing his tone, “Pray do not insult me by saying that I have mistaken familial love and twisted it into something perverse, because I have not, for the love I feel for you now burns differently. I love you, most ardently,” Viktor says with a sincerity that cuts Yuuri to the very quick. “As much as a man can love another, perhaps even more, and I wish for nothing more than to have you as my husband.”

It is a confession of the highest and most passionate kind, the likes of which Yuuri has only read about in the scandalous pamphlets that Phichit liked to foist upon him, and it feels as if every single fortification that Yuuri has erected around his heart has fallen under the onslaught that Viktor has just dealt him. His body has already turned traitor on him, reacting to Viktor’s scent and lingering touches so strongly, and it seems that his heart has betrayed him too.

Yuuri is at war with himself and much like the French, he is losing.

With a tremble in his voice that he is incapable of willing away, Yuuri asks, “Can’t we just stay as we are?” It’s a needless question, a desperate attempt to hold on to what little sanity he has left before he is finally swept away into the endless sea of Viktor’s desire.

“If you truly do not want me, then send me away.” Viktor says, an ultimatum that finally opens Yuuri’s eyes to the reality that he is but grasping at sand, and that he has long been swept far away from the safety of the shore.

“You ask for the impossible.”

Viktor barks out a laugh, pressing a scorching kiss to the inside of Yuuri’s wrist that finally has heat dripping down the insides of his thighs.

“Then we are even.”

 

.

 

Metal sings in the air, a loud whistle cutting through the silence of the salle as Yuuri brings down the sabre, the blade sweeping along the inside line. _Prime_. He lunges, grip tight on the handle, and strikes down an imaginary opponent before quickly recovering his stance, footwork steady as he turns his blade upwards and sweeps outside, wrist supinated. _Sixte_. There is a growing twinge in his right shoulder, a sharp stinging pain borne of an overextended _Tierce_ ; a mistake he will be regretting in the days to come, and even further still when Master Cialdini turns up for a bout. Yuuri’s old fencing master always seems to know whenever he did anything foolish, and picking up a sabre after months of ignoring it certainly counts as foolish, and Yuuri knows that he will be receiving a stern talking-to in the future.

For now, he ignores the pain in his shoulder and settles into another set of attacks and parries, trying to lose himself in the mindlessness and physicality of it. A day has passed after Viktor’s call and Yuuri remains at war with his heart, and all he wants is a short reprieve, a chance to gather his thoughts and make sense of his own emotions. However, this reprieve may in fact be impossible to achieve, what with his Aunt Minako’s arrival and the scolding she had given him while he broke his fast.

_“Why would it be strange? He isn’t really your brother! And it’s not as if you gave birth to him!”_

Her words ring in his ears still, her disapproval a palpable thing that covers him like a shroud, weighing him down. She had only just arrived from a long vacation in Bath, and already she had apprised herself of the situation and taken it upon herself to chastise him for his actions, thus driving Yuuri to escape to the salle so that he may have some semblance of peace. He would have preferred to go out riding, feel the wind nipping at his cheeks, but London has not the rolling hills of Brighton, and Yuuri would not risk riding his mare in its cobblestone streets, and thus he he has no other recourse but to turn to fencing, specifically the sabre, in his time of need.

The foil is his weapon and style of choice. Yuuri likes the rules and intricacies of it, appreciates the structure and the strategy required to win a single bout. It requires not only solid footwork but also a quick hand, both of which Yuuri possesses in spades, and if not for his dynamic banning him from participating in public bouts, Yuuri is more than certain that he would have beaten every single alpha and beta in his class with one hand tied to his back. The sabre, on the other hand, is Yuuri’s bane, requiring brute force rather than patience and strategy, and yet he revels in it now as anger and frustration leaves him with each punishing swing.  

_“In the five years since your debut, you’ve not taken any interest in anyone, and you go about claiming that you’re waiting for—what was it—your handsome military man! Yet you have the audacity to say that you’ve never once considered taking the boy as your spouse?”_

His blade sings again, curving in the air in a wide arc sweeping high from the inside— _Quarte_ —that hits nothing but air. Sweat drips down his brow and back, making his thin linen shirt stick to his skin underneath the leathers, a stifling and moist heat that envelops him entire.

_“I know not who you’re trying to fool, my dear, but allow me to say that it isn’t working.”_

There is a scream lodged deep in his chest waiting to be let out, but before he can give in to the temptation tickling at the back of his throat, the double doors that guard the salle are thrown wide open, admitting Vicchan and Makka, who run toward him eagerly, followed by—

“Vitya.”

Had his Aunt Minako heard him right at this very moment, she would have leveled him with a knowing stare at the fond way in which he says Viktor’s name; it is fortunate then, that she isn’t, and only Vicchan and Makka bear witness to the flush not brought about by exertion that colors his entire face. Abandoning his sabre on the floor, Yuuri settles down on his haunches and showers Makka and Vicchan with the scratches they are due, even as his eyes trail after Viktor, caught by the breadth of his shoulders and the trimness of his waist.

Before Yuuri’s traitorous eyes can dip lower, he buries his face into Makka’s coat and earns himself enthusiastic licks to the side of his face for his troubles. He can hear the frantic beat of his heart, pulse drumming beneath his choker, and he almost refuses to look up when Viktor approaches and stops in front of him, bringing with him a cloud of scent that has Yuuri’s knees shaking.

“May I trouble you for a bout?” The question prompts Yuuri to abandon the safety of Makka’s coat to see that Viktor has picked out a sabre of his own, a leather vest stretched taut over his chest. For a moment, Yuuri can do naught but stare as he  reconciles Viktor as he looks now to the Viktor in his mind’s eye, and as he does so, it’s as if something in his chest loosens, easing the strain in his heart.

Yuuri rises to his feet, sabre once again in his hand. “That depends,” he says, looking up at Viktor with a smile teasing at the corners of his lips. “Have you gotten any better?” He asks, and it has Viktor letting out a surprised bark of laughter, lips curving into a boyish smile that makes Yuuri’s heart skip a beat.

“I should think so seeing as I had the best fencing teacher growing up,” Viktor says, walking towards the piste after telling Makka and Vicchan to stay, before continuing with a wink, “He taught me all he knows.”

It’s Yuuri’s turn to laugh, although his is tinged with exasperation and incredulity as he follows Viktor to the piste, stopping just a few paces away. He casts a disparaging look towards Viktor’s feet—angled awkwardly, just like they were when he was just a boy—and says, “Then he should’ve corrected your stance ages ago.” Tapping the flat of his sabre against Viktor’s calf; Yuuri moves him until he’s satisfied and certain that Viktor won’t trip over his own feet when they start their bout. “It’s atrocious.”

Viktor laughs again, a bright and happy thing that fills Yuuri with warmth, makes him feel lighter than the very air they breathe. “I’ll be sure to let him know.”

With an amused shake of his head, Yuuri walks away, settling into his own stance; his posture straightens, the muscles in his limbs go loose before going tight in anticipation as he finally holds the sabre aloft--an extension of his arm. There’s a single breathless moment after they give each other a salute, the tension crackling in the air, before it breaks and the bout finally starts.

It is everything yet nothing at all like Yuuri expected it to be and it thrills him to his very core, has a sharp grin playing upon his lips when Viktor’s blade connects with his in a clash of steel. Viktor is fast, faster than Master Cialdini and Phichit, even faster than Lord Crispino, ruthless too, and Yuuri’s entire arm shakes under the onslaught of Viktor’s attacks. Still, Viktor’s speed and strength are not enough to hide his bad habits, and Yuuri quickly takes advantage of the way Viktor always keeps his left side open and levies a strike—

—that Viktor quickly parries with a knowing smile. Yuuri barely has the chance to block another swing, forcing him to make a quick retreat so that he can collect his thoughts that feel as if they have been torn asunder by Viktor’s attacks. At first glance, Viktor’s fencing appears the same—impulsive and graceless, a young boy’s attempts at swordplay—but upon much closer inspection, Yuuri finds that this suppoition could not be farther from the truth, for Viktor’s every strike is calculated and precise, his skills having deepened and atured over the years, much like, Yuuri thinks with a sharp intake of breath that lodges in his throat, Viktor’s affections for him.

Realization blooms, like the very last blossom heeding the call of spring, just as Viktor’s sabre sings in the air, and it’s a split-second decision for Yuuri to finally surrender—to the match, to the overwhelming depths of Viktor’s affections.

_“Would it be so terrible to marry him? He loves you and there is to be no question that you love him too. You’re already doing quite better than almost everyone else in this marriage business.”_

The sharp sting of metal against leather that he anticipates does not come, instead, warm fingers, calloused and rough, touch his cheek with a gentleness that squeezes at his heart, as if afraid that Yuuri would spook and run away at the slightest provocation, and his eyes snap open. He hadn’t even noticed that he’d closed them, and now that he’s staring into Viktor’s eyes, Yuuri has to fight the urge to close them once more.

“Yuuri, I—”

“I yield,” Yuuri murmurs into the air between them before Viktor can say another word, and means everything he has not the courage to say aloud just yet, but from the way Viktor’s bright eyes grow impossibly brighter, he hears those unspoken words loud and clear. “You have my surrender.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes hello we're at the home stretchhhhhh
> 
> if you enjoyed this chapter, please consider sharing it on [twitter](https://twitter.com/alykapedia/status/1032633636976177152) and/or [tumblr](http://alykapediaaa.tumblr.com/post/177307856036/suddenly-a-smile-shyly-obscene-chapter-1)!!


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